


Missing Chicago

by Smokemycancer



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smokemycancer/pseuds/Smokemycancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pockets of civilization survived. Towns locked down behind fences and guns holding the night away. Cults spread like wildfire across the states. Waiting for the messiah, but he never came. Death came instead. And it came with hunger. AU in which the Gallaghers and Milkovichs experience the zombie apocalypse. Mostly Ian/Mickey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hooked on Shameless and The Walking Dead, so I thought to cross the two, sort of. Really I just think Mickey would be killer at knocking off zombies. For that matter, so would Ian. Enjoy and R&R!

 

**Part One:**

_Mickey, Lip, Fiona, Frank, Veronica, Sheila_

1

****

Mickey’s life began a decline with the words, “Dad’s acting funny.” Though to be honest, his life really hadn’t been going great to begin with. Considering he’d just knocked over a liquor store with the Ortiz twins and their dyke sister Alicia. Considering they’d been busted up and ran from the police in two directions. Considering Alicia and he were standing here, needing to hide out in the house before being arrested. And especially considering Iggy was standing between Mickey and the only chance of cover he had right now.

So really, Mickey could have given a fuck less about his old man having a bad god damned day. Terry Milkovich needed a few bad days. Bad enough to make up for all the shit he’d been putting Mickey through lately just so Terry could have a good one. Terry was so fucking selfish lately, and it burned Mickey up inside knowing he’d had to drop school just to make up for all the money Terry had been pissing away on meth and hookers. Somebody had to feed his family, and Mickey guessed that’d be him. His brothers were too fucking stupid and Mandy was just a girl. So Mickey would handle it.

Unless, of course, Iggy blocked this door long enough to get Mickey throw back into juvie.  

“Isn’t he always?” Mickey snapped up at his brother.

Beside of him, Alicia craned her neck, brown eyes darting around all corners in look out. She tapped Mickey with her chipped fingernails and shoved a short, choppy lock of hair out of her nervous face. “Dude,” she hissed still looking out, “we need to get inside.”

“Yes, I fucking know that!” Mickey hurled back at her, causing the girl to flip him off and huff as she started walking away. “What?” Mickey called out, alarmed. She’d bring attention if someone spotted her running down the street. “Where you going?” he asked, face wide and angry, yet trying to maintain his cool. If she did run off and get picked up, Mickey didn’t want this cunt ratting him out to save her own skin. “Alicia,” he started up again as she made it past his fence, cursing him still. Mickey rolled his eyes and sighed out heavily. “Aye, bitch!” he growled, apologetic, sort of. “I’m sorry! Get your ass back over here!”

Iggy shook his head, glanced over his shoulder through the back door. Deep frown imprinted on his bruised face. He crossed his arms and spit by his foot on the stoop as he turned back. “Man,” Iggy started, voice low and wary, “he ain’t right. Uncle Tommy says something clawed him when they were in Indiana burying that Polish guy.”

Mickey furrowed his brow and wrinkled up his mouth. “You still on about this?” he asked, annoyed. Alicia stalked back up behind him as he shoved past Iggy to get through the door. But Iggy pressed back, slammed the door shut it hard behind him.

Scowling now instead of worrying, Iggy told Alicia to back the fuck down. Getting in Mickey’s face, he said, “I mean it, Mickey. Tell your spic bitch to shut her trap and listen. Something’s bad wrong.”

“Like how?” Mickey flared, exasperated. Hoped that abiding Iggy for now would get him in the door. His brother’s breath smelled of cigarettes and tuna. Was putrid. Their closeness was irritating. Mickey had his bubble and didn’t like it being popped.

And then Iggy said, “Dad just bit Colin! Took a chunk out of his hand!” That’s when Mickey’s life really fell to shit. Followed by the sound of sirens rounding his neighborhood, and soon being forced into handcuffs.

****

_Four Weeks Later_

****  
****

Solitary confinement in a youths’ detention center was a lot like the time Mickey’s father locked him up in the basement for letting a cop into the Milkovich house. It was quite, cold, and dark most of the time. He could hear people walking around and never saw them. Was tossed down a plate of food a few times daily. And the time passed by extremely slow. Mickey slept whenever because his concept of time was off by a long shot. Currently, however, he couldn’t sleep because of all the racket going on in the building. His block was the only quiet one, and that was because of being set away from the others.

Until today, though, things had been eerily quiet.

Mickey had no clue what was going on. Brow furrowed, he pressed his ear to the door, cupping his hand around it. Tried to listen in better. Outside of his cell, things sounded insane. Like everyone had lost their shit. He listened more. To all of the screaming. The sound of gunshots echoed through his skull.

“Fuck!” Mickey spat in a whisper. Terrified, he shoved away from the door. Running footsteps coming toward his way freaked Mickey out. Eyes wide, he dropped to his ass and scooted across the small room. Mickey looked around fast. Of course there was nothing to defend himself with. “Shit,” he mumbled as the footsteps stopped.

Whatever was going on, Mickey didn’t have to think hard on it. It was bad news. Someone was shooting up the place. That much was obvious. Though how this person had gotten in and managed to take down various armed correctional officers was worrying. The security here was packed tight. This was bad.

The person outside of his door jingled a pair of keys. Clearly searching for Mickey’s. Heart racing, Mickey changed his course. He hurried to his feet and slammed himself against the wall by his door. Tried to mold himself into the wall. With all of the noise outside, no way could whoever came for him hear Mickey’s erratic breathing. He stood in wait, eyes wide, and mouth hanging open in furious terror as the door opened up. The nose of a gun extended in aim. Mickey saw the figure visibly pause before quickly turning in the direction Mickey was hidden, behind the door.

Fast, Mickey shoved the door against the man, caught him off guard. The gun slung upward and went off. Ears ringing painfully from the close quarters shot, Mickey yelled out and held his head. A small smear of blood coating his pam. Thankfully, he hadn’t had to work hard at saving himself. Due to the fact that the bullet miraculously ricocheted back and nailed the fucker in his neck. Bleeding out, the suited up maniac writhed about, trying to re-aim his gun at Mickey’s retreating form.

Too late because Mickey Milkovich ran fast down the hall and away from the psycho’s next fire.

His hall was empty as usual. Yet up ahead, Mickey heard what now sounded like a fucking raid. His head swam. Breathing heavy as he ran toward the commotion, Mickey made a snap decision to see about going off toward the visiting area. As he grew closer, the screams grew louder, the guns sounded off like thunder. Mickey turned on a dime and swooped around the corner. Yet, as he came to discover, nothing was quiet. Nowhere seemed safe. Still Mickey ran to the visiting area. This was made easy being as someone had shut off the automatic locks to all of the entrances. Sweating like crazy in his blue jumpsuit, Mickey came to a dead stop just outside the bars of his destination. Beyond him was a lineup of boys, all laying dead before the phones and glass.

Mickey took a step back, swallowing the panic that threatened to overtake him. “What the fuck?” he asked no one as he stared at the bodies. Some shot in the back of their heads, others looked to have tried either fighting back of pleading for their lives. Regardless, no one in the room was alive. Layers of brain and blood splattered the visiting glass and cinderblock walls, running down and pooling about the linoleum.

Holding his face, Mickey blinked. He smacked himself hard. No way was he seeing this. He was dreaming. Except he really wasn’t. Mickey looked back over his shoulder, back to the noise.

He had to get the hell out of this building and fast. How had someone not come in and put a stop to this?

A sudden fear struck a cord in Mickey. Realization. It ran his blood cold. The thought hadn’t occurred to him until that very second that perhaps this facility had okayed mass homicide for some ungodly reason.

Letting out a shaky breath as he held onto the white bars of the opened door, Mickey let his eyes roam over the display of bodies and carnage. No one was dead on the other side of that glass. In fact, it appeared as though no one had even been on the opposite side. He observed this with a sick stomach. And sudden realization that his fear was true. The boys in this room, their dead faces, looked scared, angry, and above all, the ones who’d been shot in the back; they looked confused. Someone had led these people in here under the pretense of visitors. And then they’d shot them up. But why?

Mickey tried to calm himself and gain enough composure to think of a way to get himself to safety. If doing so were even possible. Regardless, he knew he’d go down trying.

And then the screams stopped. All was silent. Somewhere around a corner, Mickey heard a radio go off.

“All clear?” a man’s raspy voice asked.

Sounds of static filled the quiet, followed by, “Rodger that. Tracy, code nine in the solitary.”

“Is he dead?” the raspy voice asked, paused and concerned. Yet business.

What the hell had Mickey woken up to? He’d been locked up in solitary for his entire stay. His second day in, Mickey had punched the warden in his fat fucking face and landed himself in a wing all to his lonesome. From all Mickey could tell, what with being blocked off from all forms of news and awareness, things had been fine. Though he hadn’t received food all day today. He’d thought maybe his idea of what time is was had been confused, though. Hadn’t put much more into it.

Mickey chewed his sweaty mouth and tried breathing silently as he sneaked into the visiting room and crawled up behind a body. He did this as the voice on the radio grew close by. By the time the now obvious Swat Team member thudded his way toward Mickey, Mickey had sandwiched himself between two corpses and lay still. Camouflaged enough that he fooled the man. And there he remained until the coast was clear yet again. And even then, Mickey staid laying in the floor, shaking and afraid to move. He stared into the eyes of the dead twelve year old boy beside of him and chewed his tongue raw as he listened. Listened for all signs of life to leave the building. The wait lasted hours. And hours. Until Mickey’s bladder wanted to burst and he’d had no choice but to rush and piss in a corner. Yellow urine swirling in a mix of gore.

When night came, Mickey tiptoed out of his hiding. Remained as sneaky as he could, just in case.

By the grace of a god Mickey didn’t believe in, he made it out the side exit and into total darkness. Into eerily empty streets. He stood staring off, mind numb. Yet breathing better. Covered in someone else’s blood. But he was safe for now.

Until the butt of gun thunked him in the back of his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were talking about him. So Mickey pressed his ear to the door and listened.

Groaning, Mickey tried rolling about. He’d been knocked unconscious, had slept hard. But this did not register at first.

Head splitting, he squinted as he sat up and held the goose egg near his temple. Eyes unfocused, he blinked about his surroundings. He was in someone’s camper. It was hot. His skin felt like sticky goo. From somewhere outside, Mickey heard clattering. Voices. He could smell an open fire and cooking meat. Swinging his feet off the messy cot he’d been sprawled on, Mickey stood up slowly. He looked around the crowded camper for some type of weapon. All he could find were various items of clothing, scattered food bags and cans, toys. Trash and nothing of use mostly. Thankfully, Mickey spotted and picked up a baseball bat leaning on the back of the driver’s seat. It was lightweight and would be easy to peg heads with. If necessary. Though Mickey didn’t think it would be. If the sounds outside were any indication.

The events of yesterday played over in his head like a movie reel as he edged to the windshield and peered out. The chaos inside the detention center. The eerie emptiness of Chicago’s streets as Mickey miraculously survived his escape. All of this felt like a dream. If Mickey didn’t know better, he might have thought it was dream. Maybe he’d fallen asleep after a binder; had dreamed up the entire stay at juvie and the S.W.A.T. team attack. Perhaps he was simply waking up from yet another family excursion, courtesy Terry Milkovich. Of course that was ridiculous. Made more obviously so as Mickey swept his eyes over the strangers crowded around the camper outside. That and the juvie jumper he was still wearing, covered in dried blood.

Mickey held open the curtain with a furrowed brow. Bat resting against his shoulder. And he watched. Chewed the inside of his bottom lip, deep in thought and confusion. Heart racing with panic as he nerves pumped full forced.

The sun was up high. Midday. This family whose camper he was in consisted of five. A middled aged woman who looked wasted, passed out under an umbrella with a huge sun-hat over her face, dressed like Betty fucking Crocker; another woman, tending a fire; a boy who looked Mickey’s age, sucking on a cigarette and drawing on a piece of paper thoughtfully; a one legged, black woman who looked as if she’d been beaten within an inch of her life, curled up on a blanket beside of the last member of said family: and thankfully a man that Mickey actually recognized.

His neighborhood had a lot of colorful characters living in and frequenting it. This place the camper was parked in was far from home. Or so it looked. Yet here was Frank Gallagher, a man Mickey only remembered because he’d met the lush under the El to sell off a few poppers on more than one occasion. Back before Mickey and the Ortiz twins knocked off a local market. Back before juvie. Frank’s face was hard to forget.

Letting out a breath he’d been unaware of holding, Mickey stepped away from the window before someone noticed him. He cracked his neck nervously and peered around again.

Mickey mumbled to himself, growing angrier and more confused by the second. He rolled the hilt of the bat in his hand, then held it securely by his hip as he marched the few steps over to the door. Grabbed the handle and then froze. Because at this stance, he could finally make out what was being said.

They were talking about him. So Mickey pressed his ear to the door and listened.

“You think he’s dangerous?” one of the women asked; Mickey didn’t know which.

“If I had to guess,” a male said, definitely not Frank, “I’d say that yes, he’s most likely unhinged, violent, not someone you want around.”

“Then why did you bring him here, Lip?” the woman chastised, furious, practically growling.

Mickey had to agree with her.

“Because we need help!” Lip barked back. “Because,” he continued, “at this point in the game, anyone who isn’t taking bites out of Veronica,” he sounded breathless, “is fucking useful!”

“We don’t know him! He has to go!” the woman yelled. 

“Look around us, Fiona!” Lip lashed. “The god damned apocalypse is happening! I hardly think talking to strangers is our biggest concern!” He laughed harshly. “The dead are crawling out of graves; I had to chop her leg off; Shiela just shot someone to save Frank from being dinner! Because we are out numbered! And all you are worried about is keeping it that way! Sheila says you’ve turned away anyone who shows up alive. This guy,” Lip declared, “looks like he can shoot. He managed to stay alive during the raid like I did. We need him!”

“He’s a criminal!” she shouted.

“So am I!” Lip bellowed.

“Oh my God! What happened with you and that charge was Frank’s fault!” Fiona said.

“Now hold on just a minute,” Came a slur from a familiar voice. “I’m tired of you pointing the finger at me! Lip paves his own pathway to adulthood. If he chooses to make poor choices, you cannot. No! That’s the problem! That’s why this,” Frank laughed, “is happening around us! Because society couldn’t take responsibility for their own actions!”

And Mickey. He shook his head. Heart pounding. Head pounding. Shaking a little. And threw open the camper door. Everyone shut up and all eyes fell on him.

Scowling, Mickey make eye contact with everyone who was awake. He gripped the bat tightly. Not because he felt threatened, but because he felt out of place and awkward. Because everything he had just heard made his stomach drop.

“Somebody want to tell me what the fuck I woke up to?” Mickey asked rudely, eyes wide, sweating bullets.


	3. Chapter 3

3

Mickey could hear the crickets chirping. In Chicago, crickets are rarely heard. Mickey could see all the stars above him.This was bitter-sweet and wrong because city lights should be getting in the way of seeing the constellations. He blinked away and lowered his face back to the fire Lip had started.The flames warmed his skin, made it almost too hot. He scooted back, arms draped around his arched knees are stared blankly at Veronica’s bubbling marshmallow. She had been roasting one right after the next for a half a bag now. Not eating a single one. The woman hadn’t even really spoken since curling out of herself and nodding a greeting at Mickey. Clearly, she’d been through hell and was barely holding herself together. Shutting off because whatever happened, it had been too much. Mickey watched as the woman scratched at the air around where her leg should be. Saw the tear inching down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it off, just kept staring at the fire.

“Vee?” Fiona, who sat beside this woman, reached a hand out and clasped her shoulder. She received no response. Frowned and let her arm fall back into her overalled lap with a sigh.

Mickey licked his teeth and went to watching his feet. All day he had been at this camp, arguing with Fiona, ready to throttle Frank and Sheila, hearing the details from Lip. Details that Mickey wished were bullshit. But it was true. Somehow, this was happening. And the government hadn’t even bothered warning anyone, explaining, or trying to fix it. They’d simply barged into the city and took out more than half of the population. Mickey asked Lip earlier how many people had managed survival, and if any besides their group, where are they hiding. To which Lip said he had no idea, and why should he. Had this happened everywhere, Mickey pondered, chewing his thumb. He’d stopped talking with Lip hours ago. Had simply been nearly as quiet and kept to himself as the one legged woman beside him.

He didn’t understand any of this. No one did, he supposed.

According to Lip, even he hadn’t known what the hell was happening when he fled the detention center. Just ran on instinct and fear. Picked up glances of information along the way. By some miracle, he’d run with an unconscious Mickey toward the shoreline and happened upon some of the Gallagher family, who filled Lip in. Not planned. Just that Lip figured the shore was a safer bet. That was, once he’d seen a decomposing figure ambling out from behind a building, gnawing on a finger as it approached.

“She didn’t look like she could swim,” Lip had said over a shared cigarette, “so I figured having a bed of water to my back was the best shot in the dark.”

Like Mickey, Lip had been locked away for the four weeks of hell Chicago had been undergoing. Also like Mickey, Lip woke up to the S.W.A.T team shoving a gun in his face. He’d gotten out probably only minutes before Mickey. Had been hiding behind a dumpster outside the gate for a clear coast. He’d attacked Mickey for obvious reasons.

“I didn’t know if you were going to take a bite of me,” Lip had smirked, “or shoot me between the eyes.”

Upon recognizing Mickey’s jumper as matching the one Lip had since shed, the Gallagher boy made a snap decision to drag Mickey with him. Had figured he would need help.

Sheila’s voice dragged Mickey from his thoughts. She was asking about her daughter again. When the group was going to go out searching for this Karen person who Mickey didn’t give two fucks about.

“Soon,” Fiona told Sheila, giving the older woman a weak, reassuring smile. “We’ll try it in the morning,” she said. Then lowered her eyes, relaxed her face into worry, and said, if mostly to herself, “We’ll try again.”

In a low rumble, like a revving engine, came Veronica’s first words to Mickey’s ear. His eyes bugged and he turned to stare at her as she slowly began a cackle. One that would certainly attract unwanted attention from whatever was lurking beyond the sand; whatever was creeping the Chicago streets. Mickey skewered up his face. He’d yet to catch more than a distant sighting of these things.He sure as shit didn’t want a close up. Baring his teeth, he readied to tell the woman to shut her trap. But she stopped laughing before he could get the words out. And she shook her head, threw her stick and marshmallow into the fire. Pivoted to glare at Fiona, and threw her long arms out to wave around them. “Try again?” Veronica hissed. She smacked the ground where her leg would be. “Oh yeah, Fiona,” she laughed hatefully, tears starting up again, “because it went so beautifully the least time! I lost my Kevin!” She bellowed, growling in frustration. At the same time she broke into a fit of sobs. Held herself and tried to hide her crying face. “I lost my love and my leg!” she said. “I ain’t going back out there again for nobody! The only person I cared about is out there munching on brains!”

And so proceeded Fiona and Sheila's failed attempt to quell the woman. Mickey sucked his lip and hurled himself to his feet. Spit by his bare foot and dug a smoke from his pocket. He’d thankfully stollen a pack off a kid just before being thrown into solitary. Puffing on it, he turned and began walking away. He saw Lip’s attention go instantly to him. Heard Lip’s feet kicking back sand as he jetted after Mickey. Mickey didn’t make it but maybe twenty feet before Lip’s hand fell hard on his shoulder and twisted.

Mickey jerked his body away from the other boy’s grasp. Cigarette bit between his lips, he flared, “Aye! Get the fuck off me!”

Lip held his hands up in surrender. His face was a mixture of desperation and anger. His eyes held reason and determination. Even though Mickey wanted to get away from this situation, he truly had no idea where he’d been walking. So he stared back, breathing heavy. Sucking down his cigarette fast. He watched Lip’s eyes dance and couldn’t look away.

“Where are you going to go?” Lip asked, shrugging his shoulders sarcastically. “You need us as much as we need you,” he stated. “We don’t know what’s even out there! There’s strength in numbers.”

Mickey snorted and rolled his eyes. He glanced off at the lake. Rubbing his lip, he said, “My fucking family is out there. I have to find them. That’s what I know! I don’t give a fuck about you people.”

A look of understanding washed Lip’s face. “I get that,” he said. “My brothers and kid sister are still out there somewhere,” he continued, swallowing hard. “Tomorrow, when we go out, we’ll see about your family, too.”

“Not good enough,” Mickey said fast, shaking his head. He met Lip’s eyes. “Thanks for not leaving me by that dumpster,” he said, “but I ain’t waiting around. I’m going out there and finding my family. Tonight.” With that, Mickey threw down his cigarette, gave Lip one last soul searching stare, and turned heel. Leaving Lip to stare numbly at his retreating back.


	4. Chapter 4

**NOTE** : I’ve changed the direction I was taking this, so the the setting and pacing of this from here out will be different. But no worries, past chapters and events will tie back in. Also, my Spanish isn't great and I don't have a beta to read over it, so if the occassional word/phrase is wrong, my apologies in advance. 

PART TWO

  
_Mickey, Alicia, Carl, Ian_   


  
4

_Three months later. . ._

Mickey ran. He ran until his feet were numb. Until his lungs burnt up in need. He only stopped running because what he was running from dropped dead behind him. Blood sprayed across his bare back; the only reason he even noticed. That and the groaning stopped rather abruptly. Halting on his heels, Mickey reached into the hilt on his hip and quickly pulled out his machete. The blade flew up as Mickey spun around. He was ready. Filthy, the blade of his weapon glistened from an earlier, fresh kill. The blood still oozing enough to drip down and trail Mickey’s pale forearm. Breathing heavy. Covered in sweat. Mickey’s hair stuck up in various directions. Full of mud and grass, as well as a slight bit of blood. Blood that was now streaming around his arm and onto his bare side. The blood was cold. Sickening. Yet he had no time to think on this. Almost feral, Mickey bared his teeth, screamed wildly, and hacked away at the body by his feet. The thing was dead. Twice dead now. And Mickey still chopped away, going for third. Until the mutilated flesh was mere pus up to his ankles. Until the bone looked like busted up rock candy.

“Mickey, chill!” someone near him called, out of breath.

The sounds coming from Mickey were inaudible. Cries of a madman. So engrossed was Mickey, that the hands grabbing his shoulders from behind did not register.

“Basta ya!”

Dropping the blade fast into the puddle of mush around him, Mickey jerked from the grip. He spun around. “Get the fuck off of me, bitch!” Mickey spat out, shoving his elbows into the frail frame behind him. She fell onto her tanned ass and yelped up at him in surprise. Mickey rolled his eyes and stepped away. Caught his breathing. Came back to reality while holding his head and refusing to meet her big brown eyes.

“You asshole!” the woman laid out before him screeched up. Her lip quivered. Covered in dirt and grime from head to toe. Her blue tank-top was a mess of rips and stains. The jean shorts she wore, filled with holes, bottles of pills spilled out of her pockets and into the gore around her. She glared hatefully and hurt up at Mickey, pointed a bony finger to his nose. “Don’t you ever man handle me again!” she bit out. “Who do think you are?” she ranted on, crawling backward, out of the chopped body. Her legs slid about in the guts, streaked blood along the pavement. She flipped over. Her ass hanging out of the too short, shorts as she bent, trying to push up on her feet. The nice sneakers Mickey had swiped for her months prior, once white, were falling apart at the seams. Now standing, the girl pushed her falling pony-tail out of her face. Her hands left red prints on her cheek and forehead. She huffed. Shook her head at Mickey’s apologetic face. “Fuck you!” she whispered hatefully. “You dragged me out here for these,” she started in, bending back down and picking up a stray bottle, “and nearly have us both eaten in the process! I lose my bow because you care so much for that piece of Nazi shit!” she yelled, face reddening in anger. A vein popped out on her neck. She threw the bottle to the ground. It cracked open. Wasted penicillin spilled into poisoned mush.

By now, Mickey’s face morphed into something sinister and hateful. He bared his teeth, contrast against his flushed flesh. “He’s my brother, Alicia! The only family I got left! Shut up telling me how much you hate him. I get it, but that don’t change shit!” Mickey barked. Slapped her hand away before she could strike his face.

Nose to nose, they stood on the hot streets of desolate Chicago outskirts. Behind them, an expanse of a factory long since abandoned. Since before the plague. The sun only just starting to set.

Alicia rubbed her face. Swallowed back a half groan, half sob. Frustrated, she slammed both hands against Mickey’s chest. The sound of flesh against flesh carrying around them.

“Hey,” Mickey said, more forceful than reassuring as he gripped her forearms and furrowed his brow, “if you don’t want to be here, no one’s making you stay. Not me. Not Iggy.” He held her eyes, bit his tongue, and hoped like hell she wouldn’t call his bluff. Mickey simply had no energy left to continue fighting with Alicia.

She chuckled once and looked off at the factory, not even a mile away. Just a short walk around the old crossroads. Sucking her bottom lip before giving much thought, Alicia gasp, pulled a face, and spat by their feet. Her eyes grew wide and she turned her face back to Mickey’s panicked.

Mickey’s own eyes wide as well, he looked away and down at her hands still against him. Let go of her arms casually and chewed the inside of his cheek. He popped his thumb by balling up a fist, sniffed hard to regain composure. “You’re fine,” he said firmly. “It takes more than that, I think,” he added as an afterthought.

Nodding, Alicia pulled away from him. looked at her red painted hands. At the blood all over her. All over Mickey. Shakily, she attempted to rub the filthy onto her shorts. Failing pitifully. She rolled her eyes. Said, worry thick in her tone, “We need to hit the lake before going back.”

“It’s getting dark,” Mickey said. “And I don’t like him being alone this long.”

“So what?” Alicia asked, frowning. “We’re disgusting, Mickey!” she flared quietly. An angry simmer still. “I’m not sleeping like this,” she went on. “What if it. . .” she trailed, looked behind them at the body. “What if it seeps in through our pores? Turns us slowly?” she asked. Breathing heavy again.

Mickey knitted his brow. Reached out and pushed her shoulder gently. “Quit,” he said, calm. “You’re gonna give yourself another fucking asthma attack. I ain’t carrying you again.” And with that, Mickey took in a deep breath, walked around Alicia, and picked up the machete and any uncontaminated bottles of medicine. Alicia turning to watch him. Her breathing the only sound besides Mickey’s own heart pounding nervously in his ears.

When night approached, the two had only barely made it around the intersection littered with corpses and piled up vehicles. Some of the wreckage barricaded up. So that Mickey and Alicia had crawled through rolled down windows and ripped out trunks to reach the other side. A gateway between the factory and the city. Idea courtesy Ignatius Milkovich.

Mickey pulled Alicia through the last window. Awkwardly, they fumbled around until she had her footing. Straightening out her shirt, Alicia thanked Mickey briskly as they continued their trek. Weeds as high as their hips. Quiet wooded area on both sides. Mickey walked faster than her. His gait was wider, more confident. He held tightly to the machete hilt, eyes straight forward. Alicia had to take two steps for his every one. Hustled to keep up. Her arms crossed as the nightly chill swept over. Her eyes darted from side to side, searching the trees, then back to the beam of light set out before Mickey and his duct taped flashlight. She swallowed she jogged slightly to catch up to his side. “Do you think any are out there?” she asked, her voice seeming too loud even as a whisper by his ear.

“Duh there are,” Mickey quipped back with an amused smirk. “That’s why we need to put more distance between us and the city. Somewhere with a low population. Bumfuck nowhere, if we can find it,” he said, watching the beam of light bounce with his every step. He sucked the side of his inner lip thoughtfully. “Soon as Iggy’s better,” he added.

Alicia kept quiet while they walked up to the factory entrance.

Digging into his pocket, Mickey produced a small, silver key. He gripped the padlock fashioned on the chains. Turned it until he felt a click. Grabbed the heavy metal before it could crash too loudly on the cement. Biting the lock and key between his teeth, he motioned for Alicia to go inside quickly. Followed close behind, redoing the chains and lock. This time from the inside. All was silent in the pitch-black halls around them.

Breathing a little easier, both of them relaxed their tense shoulders and shared a grin.

“Home sweet home,” Alicia breathed out. “Flip the generator,” she told Mickey. But he was already doing so. She squinted, trying to see him fumble for the switch in the dark.

“You know,” Mickey grunted, sounded strained. His ass and one leg stuck up in the air as he wedged between heavy machinery to do as he was asked, “We can’t leave this on all the time. Boards on those windows can only do so much.” The lights flickered on and off quick. Mickey cursed under his breath, nearly lost his footing before going back to the switch he’d dropped. “Enough light spills out,” he said, tongue sticking out in effort; face heating up from exertion, “we might gain attention from something worse than zombies.”

“Oh yeah?” Alicia snorted. “I don’t see much worse than zombies, dude,” she said, rubbed her cold skin.

Mickey laughed. It sounded eerie enough to make Alicia press against the chained door, eyes fixated on the gleam of his back.

“The living,” Mickey said, “are a lot more threatening than the dead.”

The lights kicked on and Alicia screamed.

Mickey’s eyes bugged out and her jerked upward. Machete already pulled out. His eyes trained on the thin, bruised body standing dead center the dimly lit hallway. He exhaled in relief and sat the weapon on top of a meat grinder. Rolled his eyes and leaned against the cold metal.

“Mierda!” Alicia growled, running her hands through her hair, pulling the pony-tail out completely. “Do you have to be so creepy?” she spat.

Meanwhile, Mickey eyed his brother’s sickly skin and darkening eyes. Took in Iggy’s arms crossed tightly against him. The puke dried to his kin’s green, cargo shorts and red t-shirt.

“Where the fuck you two been?” Iggy asked. His voice was scratchy and tired.

“Out getting you antibiotics,” Alicia said, words full of distaste. “You’re welcome,” she hissed sarcastically.

They stared hatefully at one another.

Iggy sneered. “Geez. Don’t sound so god damned happy to aid me,” he said.

“Picked up on that, did you?” Alicia gripped, lip raised to show off her braces.

“Stupid, beaner bitch,” Iggy muttered, leaning heavily on the doorway now for support. He coughed and couldn’t stop.

Lurching forward, Mickey moved toward his brother. He swept an arm under Iggy’s and started walking his brother back down the hallway. Alicia followed, scowling. Dirty fists balled up tightly by her narrow hips.

After quieting Iggy and doping him up on stolen pharmacy goods, Mickey tossed a blanket over his sleeping brother and made his way into the other room. He stopped quietly in the doorway. Crossed his arms and blinked at the outline of Alicia’s sloped shoulders. She was writing in the journal again. The one she’d found in the house Mickey found her hauled up in. The house next door to his home. His once upon a time home. Which hadn’t felt much more like a home than the stale factory he now stood in.

Lowly, so as not to startle her, Mickey asked fruitlessly, “What are you writing?”

Her back tensed for a split second before Alicia relaxed and pivoted to face him. They had cut the generator. The only light by her on the desk was a fire lit lantern, taken from a half burned up antique store weeks ago. The light illuminated half of her still dirty face. She shrugged. Told him, “None of your buisness,” and smirked as she draped her arms over the back of her chair. Folded them and rested her chin on her bony elbows. “Maybe I’ll let you read it,” she said, blowing at a piece of stray hair, “when we make it out of this nightmare.”

Mickey laughed bitterly and held her stare. “I think we both know the chances of that shit happening,” he commented.

Sighing, Alicia closed her eyes and yawned. When she opened them, she kept her eyes downcast, staring at the chair’s shadow and her own. “Ya verás, ya verás,” she smiled.

Snorting, Mickey slowly sat down and crossed his legs. He pulled a pack of half crushed cigarettes from his back pocket and lit one with a match. Sat the items aside. Took a drag, one eye shut as he breathed fumes Alicia’s way. “What’s that mean?” he asked.

“You'll see,” Alicia sing-songed. She looked across at him, reached out and wiggled her fingers for a smoke.

Mickey smile and scooted out of the doorway. Closer now, he handed over the cancer stick.

“Sometimes I think we’ll wake up,” Alicia said, nostalgic, staring at the cigarette poised between her fingers, “and all of this will be a bad dream. Or you and me, we’ll be in the dugout, coming down from a bad acid trip.”

Mickey laughed, more of a breath, stretched his legs out around the chair. He scratched his ear. “I used to hope that,” he admitted, watching her blow smoke rings to the side. “Until I stabbed my dad through the face, until there was no face. Looking into his blank fucking eyes before,” he went on, staring at Alicia but mind far away. “Like a doll’s eyes,” he said. “He’d eaten Mandy,” the words came out softly, dull. “Fuck optimism. I’m more of a realist,” he trailed.

Silence spread between them. Hesitantly, Alicia shifted about. Reached down and held Mickey’s crown.

Sniffing hard, Mickey rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, pursed his lips. He breathed out until the images left his memory. They would be back. Always they would stick with him.

“You said that you were with a family before you found us,” Alicia started, idly playing with Mickey’s hair. “I think we should find more survivors now,” she said. “Fuerza en numeros,” she mused; “There is strength in numbers.”

The second time Mickey had been told this. He knitted his brow. Reached behind him and removed her hand. Watched her fold her arms again.

“That’s not true,” Mickey said. “You weren’t there when I first left that group,” he continued. “You were safe and tight, locked away in the Ambroe’s house. You didn’t see how vicious. . .” he trailed. “You’re ignorant,” Mickey said, not meaning to sound rude if he did. “Because,” he said, holding her gaze and now aggravated attention, “you’re lucky. S.W.A.T teams didn’t take out everyone around you. You didn’t have to sandwich between corpses and play dead to keep alive. You didn’t have to bury your family, go back inside, and get robbed blind of all the canned goods. Get shot. Have your gun stolen. And get the shit kicked out of you by two big mother fuckers holding a knife to your brother’s throat.” He huffed bitterly and thumbed his lip. “Survival of the fittest,” Mickey mused. “That’s what this is, Alicia. You’re too god damned trusting.”

“Cómo puedes pensar siempre en lo peor!” Alicia moaned, shaking her head.

Mickey scowled. “Speak fucking English!” he barked, mood turning on a dime.

“Damn you to hell, Milkovich! That English enough for you?” Alicia flared, practically jumping from the chair and stomping past Mickey.

He bounced up fast. Grabbed her by the wrist and bared his teeth in anger. “Stop!” Mickey said through his teeth. Speckles of spit hitting Alicia’s face. “I’m tired of fighting with you,” he said, calming down as he shook her and let go harshly. As she rubbed her wrist, eyes narrowed at him, Mickey rubbed his face. “What do you want? You hoping I’ll find us a friendly powwow to bunk up with?” he asked. “You think there’s some magic place out there, untouched by all this,” he stated. “And there’s not,” he went on. “God damn it, there isn’t!”

Alicia’s face contorted as tears welled up in her eyes. She touched her throat as her lips parted and a shaky breath escaped her. Crying now, she stared up at the ceiling.

A long sigh left Mickey as he flickered his eyes over her face. Slowly, a smile washed his features, softened his stare. “You’re such an ugly crier,” Mickey said, breaking the silence.

“Go fuck yourself,” Alicia chuckled despite herself, still crying.

“Besides,” Mickey said, “I’m already in hell.”

“Because of the zombies?” Alicia asked, wiping her face.

“No,” Mickey began, smile closing to a tight grin. “Because I’ll probably die soon. And the last fuck I’ll get is you. I’m getting sick of pretending you’re Van Damme,” he joked, poking her creased forehead. “My imagination ain’t that great.”

A hearty laugh flew from Alicia’s mouth. She grinned wide and flipped his off. “It’s impossible picturing you as Mila Kunis,” she said, then added, “Plus you can’t eat pussy for nothing!”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey cocked a brow. “Hard to touch something that makes my dick limp, then try and get off in it.”

She smacked his chest, still laughing. Cussed him in Spanish. The smack echoed in the room. It stung. Mickey hissed and grabbed her elbow. Twisted her arm and spun her backward. She yelled out and tried kicking his calf. Freed up and laughing. Feeling light for the first time in a long time, Mickey wrestled with the girl he used to hate. As she twisted about, trying to get out of the deathly grip, begging him to let go, Mickey lost himself thinking.

He thought, he might love Alicia. Not romantically; not in the slightest. Alicia Ortiz. The first and only lesbian Mickey had ever stumbled upon in his roughneck neighborhood. She’d moved in a block away from his house almost two years ago. With her three uncles, parents, and two older, twin brothers. Alicia and her piss poor attempt to be the hardass her siblings were; the criminal she simply was not.

How Mickey found out about her being a dyke was because Alicia first caught onto to him being a faggat. Somehow the two fell into fake dating. She helped Mickey so that he didn’t have to keep going around fucking the occasional fat chick to keep up appearances. Likewise, Mickey did her a solid by fooling Alicia’s family into believing she’d been cured of wickedness.

But she was far from wicked. She was the only thing keeping Mickey sane.


	5. Chapter 5

5

Sitting on a stool, overlooking his brother, Mickey rubbed his face. Dug the heels of his palms into his eyes and swallowed back the ball in his throat. He missed life. As it had been. Normal. His version of normal, anyway. At least then he’d had a steady roof over his head. Regular food. And then he’d had his family. Everyone intact.

Mickey stopped his crying and took a deep breath. Never taking his eyes off of Iggy’s rising chest. Leaning on the stool was a rifle he’d stolen at a pawn shop. Two shells in place. Cocked and ready. He’d hoped that he wouldn’t have to use it today. Not on Iggy. Not on the only family he had left. Already having shot his father and witnessed his sister’s mutilated body, Mickey honestly couldn’t bare the thought of putting a bullet in Iggy’s skull.

It was raining outside and this factory had holes all in the roof. Droplets fell around Mickey. Some into the buckets he and Alicia had placed about. But mostly onto the floor, where there now stood an inch of water.

Iggy gave a shaking breath, his fingers twitched in his lap. Blinking, Mickey steeled himself and picked up the rifle.

“You with me still?” Mickey croaked, weapon aimed. When a response never came, Mickey knitted his brow and placed his finger over the trigger. “God damn it,” he muttered, eyes red and voice wet. He blinked and turned his face away. Rested his chin on his shoulder. Behind him, Mickey heard Alicia zipping up their belongings into the book bags they had taken from a school once used as their shelter. The three didn’t have much. Just Alicia’s journal, one change of clothes each, bullets, lots of knives, the medication left over now that Iggy wouldn’t need it. Canned goods. All of this fit into two bags. Alicia had been packing for thirty minutes. Mickey knew it was because she wanted to give him space.

The rise and fall stopped. Mickey held his breath, eyes dilating. He turned his head around to watch. He waited. Waited for Iggy to gasp for air. To look at him again. But this time with a cold, empty stare that said Iggy was no longer Mickey’s brother. Because Mickey could put a hole through Iggy’s head, but only if he was sure his sibling had left him.

Wetting his cracked lips, Mickey listened for sounds of breathing. He heard none. There was the thrash of Alicia’s zippers. And then, not even that. Left only with water droplets, Mickey leaned back, held himself together. Iggy’s eyes opened. White. Rimmed red. Empty. He rasped out a long moan and began standing.

Mickey pulled the trigger.

-

“We have to get out of the city,” Mickey said, blowing out smoke from his nostrils and staring over the empty street at the piles of vehicles and bodies. “Can’t go back to that factory. It’s a pool by now,” he added, then finished with, “We need some place to sleep.” They had left the factory hours ago.Yet the pair hadn’t made much distance. Mostly because Mickey slowed them down. Mickey and his swirl of emotions; his frequent need to stop and get himself together. That and the handful of marathoners who tried chewing off a piece of Alicia’s ass. Mickey plucked the cigarette from his lips. He looked at Alicia’s profile. Studied her expression for signs that she wasn’t on the same page as him anymore.

Always Mickey was afraid his companion would wash her hands of him, go off on her own. After all, Mickey was overbearing a lot the times. He knew it. Just like he knew Alicia craved people. She had been going on about finding a town that was still standing. Some place to settle in until the zombies came and destroyed that as well. Maybe find a place that was untouched by all of this. A place that Mickey doubted existed. And she knew of his doubts. Knew Mickey’s only goal was to keep moving. Until his legs gave out. Or until he was bitten.

The setting sun cast a glow over the two. Temperatures had dropped drastically in the last few days. Summer was almost over. Mickey knew he and Alicia needed to find some new clothes. Coats. Shoes better suited for an early winter. He could tell that was coming.

Licking the juice from her thumb and sitting an apple core by her hip, Alicia kicked her heels on the railing. She sniffed hard and rubbed the goose-flesh of her arms. “How about,” she started in, her friendly manner quelling Mickey’s nerves, “we try and get one of these cars moving.” As she stood, Mickey followed suit. Stretching her limbs, Alicia looked at Mickey over her shoulder. “Your brother thought driving would attract attention,” she said, her voice wary of stepping on the eggshells of Iggy’s death. “He also thought the city was safer. But he’s not calling the shots anymore. Que te parece?” she asked.

Halting his legs, Mickey furrowed his brow at Alicia. She was right. The first time Mickey brought up the idea of getting a car, Iggy stamped his foot down. For one, because zombies were keen on tracking any kind of sound and cars were loud. Two was that people were also attracted to sound. People that may or may not be favorable. Foot. That’s what Iggy insisted the trio stick to. Walking was sneakier. Less risky.

But a car would move so much fucking fast. And frankly, Mickey was okay with the odds.

“Hope one of these has a set of keys hanging in the ignition,” he said and watched Alicia grin softly, “and lots of _gasolina_.”

Alicia rolled her eyes at him, smiling brightly. “Vamos a cazar!” she said, waving her arm as they marched forward.

They crawled through the first stack of their wreckage wall and stood amid the line of cars that followed. Side by side, they glanced at the darkening sky.

“Move your ass,” Mickey broke the silence. He tightened the straps on his backpack and took a few steps to his right, toward a beat up Mustang. “I’ll take the right, you go left. Honk the horn if you find something with enough gas in it,” he said and started in. But he stopped, hand on the handle, and looked up at Alicia’s back. “Aye!” he called out, then check over his shoulder. When he gave her his attention again, Alicia stopped her attempt to open a van door. She wasn’t so far that Mickey need to scream, yet she wasn’t close enough that he could keep his voice down. “If shit gets crazy when you honk,” Mickey said, dead serious, “fucking leave me here.”

Even from their distance, Mickey saw Alicia’s face falter. “No,” she declared. Then went back to shimming open the door.

Mickey watched her a second more. A small smile graced his face. Then he opened the mustang door and almost puked on his sneakers.

Lurching away from the car, Mickey covered his mouth and groaned. The smell inside the Mustang was a sure sign of death. He hadn’t gotten a good enough look inside to see the body, but he knew there was one. Rotted. Bloated. Maybe burst open from the heat. Pulling his shirt collar up over his nose and mouth, Mickey reached out and slammed that door closed. Moved on to his next option. This time, he was more choosey. He looked for something big. With enough room that he and Alicia could sleep in it. Enough room to store food. Weapons. Stuff they needed and in the past had gone without. Because Iggy wanted to travel light. And maybe that was the best idea. Maybe staying in the city, where everything was easy access, was a good thing. Maybe. But Mickey had his doubts. Had from the start.

Cities were hit hardest when the plague broke out. Because people had huddled together. Had depended on one another for safety and healing. One right after the next, the prey became the attackers. Like wildfire, the virus spread over Chicago. Over everywhere.

Shortly after leaving the Gallaghers by Lake Michigan, Mickey hauled up in his house with his brother and Alicia. They’d had enough food for the first month. Had raided the neighbors’ homes afterward. And for a while, television and radio were still things. Broadcasts of troops being pulled out of Iraq and brought home to fight the internal battle. Save America! And then the great nation fell. The broadcasts slowly stopped. This thing, whatever it was, spread overseas. The president and all of his men fled to a safe haven in Germany. Some place that had been working on a cure. And then even that place was overtaken.

Now it was just scarce survivors fighting to maintain some kind of life. People gone mad from desperation.

Cities might me more convenient. But they were also by far the most dangerous. Mickey knew that. High population meant an influx of flesh eaters. Iggy had been wrong.

So whether or not a place of sanity and safety existed, Mickey planned on booking it far, far away. Down south. Where the weather was more dependable. Or so he figured. Always warm weather. That would be nice, he thought. Especially being as electricity was a thing of their past. And fires only attacked corpses. With winter coming, Mickey had no doubts that deep south was he and Alicia’s best option. And maybe Alicia’s hope of civilization would prove worthwhile. Maybe he could give her what she wanted.

As he popped open an SUV and had his go at the wires, Alicia honked a horn. Loud, but muted because Mickey’s head was practically in the floorboard. He grunted, chewing his lips in concentration, and let go of the wires. Slowly, he began lifting himself. Pushing up, face downward. As he sat up, Mickey noted how dark it had gotten. Blue overcast everything. Within ten minutes at the most, he’d need a flashlight. Which he had stupidly left in Alicia’s bag, he realized with a cold shiver.

“Shit,” Mickey muttered to himself. He flipped around casually as Alicia honked her horn again.

Something creaked behind the SUV. Mickey froze. Swallowed hard. Alicia honked again. Knitting his brow, Mickey fumbled in his pocket for the handgun. Getting it in his grip, he pulled it out and check the barrel. He’d loaded before leaving the factory. Or had he? His mind had been such a mess from Iggy’s death. He’d been in such a hurry to leave.

Slow down, Alicia had told him. He was being too rash, she’d said.

Turns out, the bitch wasn’t wrong. The gun had an empty barrel.

“Fuck!” Mickey growled. He punched the seat with the gun in his fist. Trained his ears.

To the breathing. The sounds of footsteps. A slow, uneven, smack of flesh on asfalt.Scratchy, hollow moans. Mickey frowned and braced himself. Leapt up from the car, basically unarmed, ready to run toward the honking. As soon as he was out of the SUV, Mickey caught sight of headlights hitting him from behind. The stream of lights beamed out, washed over the cars. Cast shadows to dance around Mickey. Lit up the figure approaching him. Mickey spun around, ready to run away rather than fight this one. He had knife, sure, but it was dark. Plus, experience told Mickey that where one corpse walked, surely more would follow.

So he spun around. And yelled out in surprise.

More always followed. Rule of thumb was, always watch your back. Mickey really wished he had done that.

Sharp bones of peeled back fingers dug into Mickey’s shoulder. Tore at the waistline to his tank top. Before him stood a woman of probably fifty. Dressed in a bathrobe, curlers in her hair. Her jaw hung open, hanging off one side and swinging against her collar bones. Thankfully she wouldn’t be able to bite Mickey. However, the man lumbering toward Mickey’s back snapped his already bloody teeth in anticipation, only a foot away. WIthin arms reach.

Baring his own pearly white, Mickey lifted up his leg and kicked the woman off of him. Barely fazed, she rolled around, got partially back to her bare feet. Mickey kicked her again, this time in the spine. He pulled out his knife, forsaking the gun to the pavement. With haste, Mickey dropped to one knee and jabbed his knife through the woman’s temple. Yanked it out fast. Not fast enough.

Horn still going in the background, Mickey bucked the man off of his back. Slung his arm back in an attempt to slice the zombie. Crying out in frustration, teeth clenched, Mickey fell back onto the woman and wrapped his hands around the man’s neck.

A businessman with all teeth and limbs intact. Dangerous and full of strength. This one had eaten recently.

“I said leave me, god damn it!” Mickey yelled out even though Alicia couldn’t hear him. As the zombie clicked his teeth and dug his fingers around Mickey’s ribs, Mickey said to himself, directed at Alicia, “Stubborn fucking idiot!”

Gurgling and thrashing, the man’s teeth came dangerously close to Mickey’s shoulder. In a quick and possibly foolish attempt to save himself, Mickey let go of the zombie’s neck with his armed hand. He held tight to the knife.

Pressing down on him, the zombie licked Mickey’s skin, readied to bite down. In one swift motion, Mickey stabbed the blade straight into the man’s skull. Instantaneously, the zombie fell off of Mickey.

Furiously, Mickey flung the beast off of him and gained back his blade. He went to wailing on the zombie’s face. Stabbed the eyes out. When he pulled back, sat up, he was straddling the businessman. Blood from the woman and now this one had smeared his jeans and tank-top. Not nearly as much as his previous pair of pants. He stood up and kicked the head. The man’s neck loled. His jawls jiggled about in the puddle of blood.

Mickey sheathed his knife back to the holster on his hip. He breathed heavy and wiped his face. Looked down at what he’d done. Then noticed the horn had stopped honking.

Featured confused and exhausted, Mickey turned around. He held a hand up to shield his vision from the blinding light. Squinted through the beams at the tractor-trailer off in the distance.

“Jesus,” Mickey chuckled, “you brilliant bitch.” He sniffed, smiling, and walked the trail of light.

His pace was slowed down because Mickey has twisted his ankle sometime between stabbing the old woman and struggling with the businessman. Limping, Mickey made it in front of the truck’s grill. He once again shielded his eyes. Peered up at the windshield to spot Alicia. Mickey assumed the lights were too bright to make anything out. So, smiling in relief, he walked around to the passenger door. Which Alicia had thoughtlessly left open. Watching his footing, Mickey gripped the handle inside the door and pulled himself up. Mid hoist, he said, “I ought to fucking smack you.” He plopped his ass down in the seat and turned his face, all too happy, before realizing he sat beside empty air. Blood running cold, Mickey turned to look behind the seat. As if Alicia would fit there. Panicking, he jumped back out of the truck and spun around wildly.

“Alicia!” Mickey called out. Afraid to call attention to himself. More scared of being alone. Worried now for his friend’s safety. He was met with only the echo of his voice.


	6. Chapter 6

6

“Do you ever wonder what happens when someone turns?”

Ian sucked his bottom lip and shrugged. He kept his eyes trained on the road ahead. Relaxed and not pent up for once. Sparing a quick glance to his right, Ian told Carl, “I think nothing happens.” Then went back to looking at the long stretch of guardrail and trees.

Carl snorted. “Um well, it does,” he remarked. “I mean, it would have to.”

“Not really,” Ian said. “I think it’s kind of like before we’re born. We don’t remember anything because we just weren’t,” he explained, enjoying the feel of the car’s heater on his face. “And when someone gets bitten, or whatever,” he sighed, “they just die. And their body comes back, sure. But they just aren’t anymore. You know?”

Carl scratched his head. Nestled deeper into his surrounding pillows. “Not really,” he yawned.

Grinning slightly, Ian reached out with one hand and ruffled Carl’s growing hair. “Stop thinking about zombies,” Ian chuckled. “Where’s it getting you?” he asked.

Humming, Carl twitched his lips upward. He hugged himself and closed his eyes. Let the warmth of their dinged up Oldsmobile lull him to sleep. And Ian listened for sounds of soft snoring. Was quiet until he heard them. Then flipped on the stereo.

The volume was cranked down to nothing. Barely audible. Ian tuned it so that the sound was only on his side. Cut the base. In the CD slot was one of the many discs that Ian had swiped from the shop he’d gotten this very car. He turned up the volume only a little. Let Dan Auerbach and Patrick Carney keep him company.

  
_A sinister kid is a kid who_   
_Runs to meet his Maker_   
_A drop dead sprint from the day he's born_   
_Straight into his Maker's arms_   
_And that's me, that's me_   
_The boy with the broken halo_   
_That's me, that's me_   
_The devil won't let me be_   


Tapping the pad of his thumbs on the wheel, Ian mouthed along to the lyrics. He relaxed further into his seat. The car sped across the road. Beside of him, the silver railing blurred into the surrounding greenery. He and Carl had come a long way. Distance wise, but also mentally. Thinking back to the day he and his younger siblings were separated from the others, Ian’s guts churned.

He’d been at work when it happened. When the government decided to evacuate the city. At first, no one really knew what was causing the madness. Which was what lead to the infection spreading into the safety camps and eventually tearing those to shit. Ian had been stuffed into one of those camps with Carl and Debbie. Debbie. She was so scared. Cuffed down on a hospital bed while the nurses and doctors tended to the bite mark on her stomach. Seeing the images of that day burned the back of Ian’s eyes. He wanted to claw the memory out and erase it forever. Yet at the same time, those were the last hours he’d spent with Debbie. He kind of needed to keep them.

Now it was just Ian and Carl.

After the camp burned to the ground, literally, Ian ran him and Carl back to the Kash and Grab. The city had been terrifying. People who had refused the evacuation. Dead. Some barely surviving, only to be torn apart in front of Ian’s face. Making it back to his home away from home had been one of the most challenging events Ian could remember pushing through. Mostly because of Carl. At only ten years old, Carl could absolutely not handle himself. And looking out for the kid nearly cost Ian his life on more than one occasion. Now that Ian had taught Carl to shoot properly and not be a hero when it didn’t matter, Ian had less of a mess on his hands. However, getting by was still not easy.

Not to mention Carl missed their family. Well, so did Ian.

But he’d looked as best he could for Fiona and the others. Had phoned the house and reached absolutely no one. Gave up on the Kash and Grab. Braved the streets of South Side. Found home. What was left of it. No one. The camper that Fiona rented the day before hell broke lose. . .even that was missing.

So having no idea where to look, Ian took Carl and kept the kid safe back at the Kash and Grab. Where there was plenty of food. And more importantly, a home upstairs.

But even that bit of fleeting and false sense of security was outlived. Gone before Ian had the time to breath properly.

Sure, he had locked the doors to the shop. Not that it mattered when desperate survivors came looking.

Ian and Carl scaled the building to safety. Found the car they now occupied. And the rest was history. Ian had no idea where he was even taking them. So far, their journey had been grueling and depressing. The radio stopped broadcasting a long while back. At least a month had passed since more than static played to Ian’s ears when a CD wasn’t popped in place.

Once upon a time, the president spoke of safe havens near the oceans on all sides. But who knew if those were still standing. Probably not. If so, surely the world would not have gone to pot to this extent.

No. Ian knew there was nothing out there now. Scattered groups clinging together still, maybe. But nothing solid. Still, he drove Southeast, toward heat and the shoreline. Because hope still flickered in his chest. That and cold was fast approaching.

Slowing up his speed as the road became tortuous, Ian reached down and cut the music. Leaned up in his seat and weaved around rubble. Only just outside of Illinois now, Ian squinted his eyes and hoped not to pop a tire. The pair couldn’t afford another tragedy. Losing most of their weapons to a hoard recently put them at a disadvantage enough. Be damned if Ian was going to hike this interstate nearing nightfall.

So engrossed was Ian in avoiding sharp objects, that he nearly hit the woman darting, half stumbling, out of the surrounding woods.

“Holy shit!” Ian screamed, waking Carl. He slammed his brakes on instinct, throwing his little brother into the dash with and omf.

“What the heck, Ian?” Carl snapped, rubbing his forehead and wincing. Braces glinting against his now busted lip.

Eyes wide, Ian stared into the beaten face of a young woman. Who was in fact, as Ian thought initially, not a zombie. She was wearing torn clothing. Was practically naked. Covered in cuts and blood. Bruises. Her hair was full of mud chunks and weeds. Leaning on the hood of his car, she eyed him, terrified. Out of breath. And she was talking to him. Ian could barely hear her, but he knew the words were not English. He caught a few as he threw open his car door. Perhaps foolishly. Ian and his ever kind heart. Always willing to help anyone in need. Had gotten him and Carl into more than a bit of trouble on various occasions. Still, as he stepped out of the car fast, Ian could see this girl was not the danger. Whatever she was running from, however, likely was.

“Ayúdenme!” the girl rasped, mouth quivering from the cold. She was shaking like a leaf as Ian rushed to help her into his backseat. And as he all but climbed in with her to get her situated, the girl muttered nothing but nonsense. Words Ian didn’t know. Some that he did because she occasionally spoke English. Only to mutter, like a mantra, “Thank you!”

Fast, Ian ran around and got back into the driver’s seat. He’d never cut the car. Slamming his door, he didn’t bother buckling up and jetted away from the area. Driving over more rubble than could possibly be okay on his tires. For that matter, his undercarriage. He kept going. Sparging only a glance in his rearview once to see specs of maybe three men running from the woods.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long. Got a lot of shit going on.

7

She hadn’t said a word since Ian pulled the car over to sleep. Carl kept watch. Ian didn’t sleep more than two hours before jolting awake from another nightmare. Realizing it was only a dream, Ian sat up in his seat and looked over at Carl. Who had, of course, passed out. The boy was exhausted, so Ian couldn’t really be angry. For days the two had been running on steam. Both needed a crash. Yet they could not afford sleep. Thankfully nothing crazy had happened.

Ian shifted about, yawning and stretching. His eyes drifted up to the rear view. Hand going fast to his chest, Ian gasped. His heart raced. Slammed against his palm. “Jesus,” he breathed, closing his eyes to contain himself. “You’re awake,” he breathed. Clearing his throat, Ian turned in his seat and looked at the girl. She’d put on the shirt Carl dug from a bag. But she was still filthy.

  
She studied Ian with scrutiny.

“Do you speak English?” Ian asked her in a whisper, so as not to wake Carl.

Nodding, she said, “Thank you.” Wetting her lips and sitting back in her seat. She looked tense still. Staring out of her window. “They would have killed me,” she said.

Debating how to ask this girl what had happened, Ian settled for the direct approach.

She shook her head. “They took me,” she said. “I was with someone. We were searching for something to drive,” as she continued, the girl curled her legs up onto the seat. She hugged herself and stared out the glass. But Ian could tell she was not looking at anything particular. Her mind was on the companion she spoke of. On the event that tore her away.

“When was this?” Ian asked her.

“Three days ago,” she trailed.

Ian chose to let her be. He started the car up and put even more distance between them and Illinois.

 

-

_Twenty Days Later_

Her name was Alicia, and as Ian had discovered, the girl had been held hostage by a group of cannibal turned men hiding out from zombies in the woods she’d fled. The men had used Alicia and once they had grown bored, readied to eat her. If he hadn’t shown up, they most certainly would have. It had taken two days just to help her regain strength. And once she had, Alicia proved to be a keeper. But she was sleepless at night. On edge during the day and constantly forcing Ian to pull over and search relentlessly for her lost companion. In fact, Alicia had convinced Ian to head South, to Florida, solely because she knew her friend had wanted to go that way. It was a good idea, and Ian obliged. Though he knew Alicia was not to find who she was looking for, at least cold weather would no longer be a major problem. Ian hoped beyond everything that this girl would choose to stick around with him and Carl in the end. They needed someone tactical. Ian was strong, tried to be brave for his kid brother, and determined; what he was not was someone who could think up schemes like this girl had just done.

Lip probably could have.

“This is great!” Carl exclaimed with glee, voice slightly above a whisper. He sniff hard and coughed into his shoulder. His dirty hands were against Alicia’s side as she peered through binoculars over the hillside.

Standing back from them, gun ready, on guard, Ian smirked and chuckled in excitement. Really, he was ready to frolic forward in a fit of joy.

“A real shower!” Carl went on. “And and real bed!” he hopped, shaking Alicia as he did so. Fingers digging into her tan sweater.

Alicia gently pushed Carl’s shoulder and shushed him. Focused, she said, “Alguien ya está ahí.” The disappointment was evident in her own tone. Then translated herself quickly, “Someone’s there.” Her brows were knitted, her chapped lips loose and set in an open frown.

“What?” Ian huffed, mouth and heart dropping. “How many?” he asked.

This sucked. The three had been working for days clearing out the zombies and blocking this quiet little hotel off from the highway. They had made it to Tennesse, had found a secluded small town. Mostly closed down mom and pop shops. Raided thrift stores. Forsaken homes and the like. For one night they’d camped at a church while constructing a plan to try and settle into the Koko Bed and Breakfast; a large white farmhouse set off a small gravel road. Reason being, temperatures were dropped and Carl had come down with the sniffles. Alicia insisted they rest before Carl got worse. Told Ian that she would sooner go back to the cannibals then watch another person die from pneumonia and turn. She had left the discussion at that. And so here they were, ready to move in and rest. At least for a week. Maybe more. Surely no one had found this place! Ian and Alicia had made sure to shurb over the road and hide all traces of the shelter! Save for the ridiculous sign that Alicia left tapped to the town’s entrance sign. The one that read in bold red marker, “Mickey?”

Always she left a sign like that in hopes that the guy, whoever he was, would stick around and find her. To the back of the sign, Alicia always tapped a tiny note regarding her future direction.

If she had written about this hotel, and someone other than her probably dead boyfriend saw it, Ian would feed Alicia to the zombies himself.

“I don’t know,” Alicia sighed. She lowered the binoculars and they fell against her chest. Features twisted into the sadness they now all felt, she crossed her arms and looked down at Carl. Her eyes flickered over him, studying. His attention was still on the hotel in the distance.

“Let me see,” Carl demanded, disbelieving. In denial. He grabbed for the binoculars then, and Alicia jumped back.

“Quit!” she snapped but he didn’t. They fumbled, fighting for the item.

“Would you two quiet down?” Ian hissed. Lunging forward, he snacthed the binoculars from Carl’s hands. Now between the two, battle disengaged, Ian scowled and looked at both. Without a word, he quick and stiffly tried to see what Alicia had. He squinted through the binoculars, fists tight around the cold metal.

Parked beside of the hotel was a red pickup truck that hadn’t been there last night.

Ian breathed out, morose. He slumped his shoulders unconsciously and turned to Alicia, handing over the binoculars.

“Well what now?” Carl urged, his words seeming distant to Ian’s ringing ears. Ian Ignored the kid. His earlier worry about Alicia’s note weighing heavy, Ian glared at her. This was most likely not her fault. Yet Ian couldn’t quell his building anger. Nostrils flaring, he steadied his temper and asked her through tight teeth about the note. Carl hushed to listen, attention glued to Ian’s hardened eyes.

“No one else would think to read it,” Alicia said, though her voice was a dead giveaway to her own self doubt. She wetted her upper lip and looked away, again through the binoculars.

Rolling his eyes, Ian stuffed his gun down the back of his pants and threw up his hands. “Jesus Christ,” he mouthed. Rubbed his forehead, groaning, “I can’t believe you did this.”

“Don’t you dare,” Alicia snipped, mouth pursed tightly as she gazed on. “Haría lo mismo,” she muttered, lip raised.

“Maybe whoever it is, they’re nice,” Carl pleaded, tugging Ian’s jacket sleeve and making the older boy look down at him.

Staring into his kid brother’s face, Ian saw the cold sweat on Carl’s forehead. The darkened circles forming beneath his once youthful eyes. Carl was getting ill. Alicia had been right about them needing rest. And all of the food they’d found in the hotel cellar would certainly help fuel Carl’s immune system. The three of them had been living off fucking rabbit and canned crout. And barely any of that. They needed this hotel badly. So tearing his eyes away, Ian put away his anger with Alicia and once again took a hold of his gun. He gripped Carl’s shoulder and nodded. “Maybe they are,” Ian smiled falsely. Looking at Alicia over his shoulder, he added, “Can’t hurt to find out,” eyeballing the brand new bow and arrows she had strapped to her back. Ian’s smile replaced secretly from Carl’s once again hopeful face as he mouthed for Alicia to get ready.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it's been a while since I touched this! My apologies! Life's crazy and shit...BUT HERE YOU GO! This chapter is a lot shorter than the one's past. Mainly because I totally forgot most of where I'd been going with the hotel bit. . .so I'm moving on fast to the plot I've now got cooking up. Enojoy!

8

Ian had a feeling that Carl wasn’t really going to stay where he and Alicia had asked him. Hidden up the trail, behind the shrubs and their car. The two had left with the car keys and a pistol, along with specific orders to stay put for at least thirty minutes. If the two didn’t return, take the keys and leave. But Ian knew his kid brother wouldn’t listen. The worry gnawed at his stomach as Alicia tiptoed behind him toward the back door of the hotel. Trying to let go of his anxiety and focus on the task at hand, Ian breathed slowly. He looked over his shoulder at her and gripped the screen door knob. The actual back door was standing open.

They creeped inside. Ian held a hand back against Alicia’s sternum, halting her. Put the tip of his gun over his lips and shushed her, holding her gaze as he listened for signs of life. And there it was, the sound of quiet humming drifting down the stairway to their left. He watched Alicia knit her brow and edge closer to him. The floorboard creaked and she winced. Both holding their breath, Ian and Alicia continued listening to the lullaby.

A mother and child? Ian felt hope swell within him.

To be on the safe side, the pair nosed around down stairs, the ever present hush little baby following them about. All room downstairs were cleared. Slowly they climbed the second set of stairs. This homemaker hotel, as Alicia had put it the day before, probably had five rooms max. So applying that belief to now, Ian led them down the hallway and into each one. There were actually seven. The last one, to the end and near a boarded up exit, was the source of the humming.

Sweating bullets, Ian placed his head against the door and listened. Meanwhile, Alicia cocked her gun and leaned into him, ready. The humming stopped. Ian swallowed hard. Alicia set her face into a hard line and reached around him to the door knob. Nose to nose, they nodded as she flung open the door.

Ian’s eyes took longer than expected to focus on what he was seeing. A sight more gruesome than he was used to, even in the apocalyptic world he now lived. But to be fair, he and Carl had lucked out thus far. And by the looks of it, the sight had shocked Alicia as well. His eyes flicked over her fast. She was holding her mouth, eyes wide and cheeks suddenly wet. Her gun was aimed and shaking. Ian quickly put his attention forward.

“You’ll wake him,” the woman seated in a rocking chair against the opened window told Ian. Her hair was falling out in patches. She was dressed in a nightgown; the fabric worn so thin that it was translucent. Filthy and covered in blood. The toddler child in her arms was blue. Was gnawing on her wrist violently. She’d shit her gown. The room stank of death and more to come. Her eyes rolled back into her head as she hugged the boy closer and let him feast. Moaned and shook as the blood continued flowing around her torn flesh.

“Fuck,” Alicia breathed, letting go of her face.

At a loss, Ian aimed his own gun. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.


	9. Chapter 9

The low rumbled of an engine grabbed Mickey’s attention. Faint. Difficult to make out because of the on-again-off-again wind rustling the dead branches around him. He dropped his cigarette beside his boot and tried to train his ears. His own truck was parked on the train tracks he was sticking to. Mickey had only gone off course to raid a house or two in this shit-hole township hidden in backwoods. If he was actually hearing what he thought, Mickey saw two possibilities. The person driving the car was either a good witch or a witch. He hoped good. Mainly because traveling alone, while preferable to being with strangers, was getting extraordinarily dangerous for Mickey. In the past month he’d had one extremely close call. In fact, he’d been bitten.

Reaching up, in deep thought, Mickey thumbed his lower lip. He could see the hick-town market parking lot from his place among the brush. Black smoke. Far away. Maybe at the end of the parking lot. No sign of the dead. Of course, if even just one zombie caught sight, smell, sound of that engine and smoke, no doubt every single corpse within a mile radius would join. Should he risk the slightest possibility of company, was the real question. Or would he find safer solace in getting the fuck away from this area? Mickey knew he should just leave. But when he pulled his hand away and looked down, his heart raced with sickening memories, fear, and future worry.

Dropping his arm down, Mickey sighed and pulled his rifle off the forest floor. He trekked forward, down a slight hill slide. No sooner did his feet touch asphalt than Mickey reassessed his decision. Three feet from him, beneath the undercarriage of a Hummer, was half a person chewing on a lump of intestines.

“Shit,” Mickey breathed, aggravated. He let his heart rate slow and walked toward the Hummer, stopping to squat down. So engrossed in its meal was the head and shoulders that she failed to notice him. Until he knocked on the yellow paint job and startled her. “Hey!” Mickey barked, quiet, but loud enough to jar the thing.

Snarling, the partial woman pivoted toward him, teeth ready. Mickey unsheathed the Bayonet on his hip. Jabbed it through her temple with a look of disgust on his face. Stood fluidly and wiped the blade on his thigh.

There was no point in the kill but to break Mickey’s built up ice since his previous encounter. He breathed a sigh of relief as he felt his blood pumping steadily. Shaking his shoulders and cracking his neck, Mickey walked onward.

There weren’t that many vehicles in the parking lot. A lot of rotted flesh and organs. Overturned shopping carts and trash. He stepped over the junk and followed the still visible black smoke.

He’d been right about the smoke coming from way off. Finally, Mickey made it to the edge of the parking lot and found himself staring across the street at a dinged up red pickup truck. Fucking Dodge, so no wonder the thing was running idle and smoking up the street. Hood raised, some dumbass carelessly half inside the engine with no regard to his surroundings. Mickey hugged his rifle, hanging by a rope around his shoulder, and gripped the Bayonet he’d yet to sheath. Slowly, he stepped into the street, looking around for signs of life. Or lack thereof. The street sign creaked beside him, made him jump. He glared at the greens sign, eyes bugged, mouth open, nostril flaring. His entire body tensed up into a defensive stance.

Main St. NW glared back at him, ugly and rusted. Mickey smacked the sign and growled.

Turning his attention back to the scene in front of him, Mickey furrowed his brow. He’d wonder if the guy climbed inside the hood was dead, if not for seeing the muscles of his back moving around with effort. The engine was clearly too loud to hear over.

“What a fucking dumbass,” Mickey muttered to himself. And decided that if this person was too stupid to keep himself safe, Mickey would rather not bring him along. It would just be counter productive. He’d come this far for nothing. For all Mickey knew, his own truck was being raided and stolen right now. “Fuck,” Mickey spat, grabbing his growing hair and baring his teeth hatefully. He let his angry nature get the better of him if only for a second and immediately regretted it as he harped out, “Hey thanks a lot, shit for brains!” Like it was this guy’s fault that Mickey had been stupid enough to walk this far out, coward enough to need company, and naive enough to hope.

Now that grabbed the stranger’s attention. He jerked up, hit head on the hood, and moaned and he held his crown and began to cry. Loudly. Mono-toned. His face skewered up as he knelt down on the ground like some four year old who fell off his bicycle and scrapped his knee.

Mickey was confused and caught completely off guard. He backed up, ready to speed walk back to the tracks. But found himself frozen in place. Behind the man, probably the same age and size as Mickey’s brother Jamie, a naked geezer stumbled out from some shop called Grainsville Hobby Lobby. White eyes rolled back, flesh ripped and green. He lumbered toward the crying stranger, who only noticed once the thing was practically on top of him.

Knowing he really had no reason to give a fuck, much less involve himself, Mickey willed his foot to scrape backward. Intent fully on leaving, not looking back.

The man, who Mickey now knew had to be mentally handicapped, screamed, still crying and holding his head with one arm. He scooted away fast from the zombie until his back was to the truck. And then, in a panic, kicked at the geezer.

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey bitched. “What the fuck am I even doing?” he asked himself loudly as he rushed forward and threw his shoulder into the corpse, knocked it through the Hobby Lobby window. As the zombie writhed on the glass and struggled to its feet, Mickey grabbed the man’s shoulder and tried to lift him. “Come on!” He shouted. Adrenaline going. “Get the fuck up! Come on!”

Pulling away, still kicking, the man shouted, “No!”

“You wanna fucking die?” Mickey said sharply. He let go, shoving the man slightly as he did so, and glared hard. He looked down into the eyes of a grown man but felt he was looking at a kid. In that moment Mickey hated this retard. And hated himself even more for not leaving the guy there to make the geezer’s stomach full.

“M-m-Mark said to stay here!” the man told Mickey. His brown eyes full of water as he wiped his dirty face with more grease. Then folded up his knee and chewed the filthy fabric of his overalls.

“Well where is Mark?” Mickey crooned hatefully

“I don’t know! He has to fix our truck! S-so we can leave and find his granny!” the man mumbled against his knee, shook his head, then pointed at the old man half walking, half crawling at them once more.

Mickey shouted like a wild animal because he didn’t know what else to do. And shot the zombie. The silence that followed after the gun went off was oddly calming to Mickey. He breathed out, heavy and slow. Stared at the body by their feet. He shut his eyes and took in the smell of gunpowder. His hand tingled. Once he had a grip again, Mickey looked back down at the person he’d saved.

“Thank you,” the man said, hugging himself still.

“Yeah, whatever,” Mickey slurred fast. He crossed his arms, feeling uncomfortable now. “So, who the fuck is Mark?” he asked, hoping for helpful information. After all, he had already involved himself. Not that Mickey felt a sudden responsibility toward this moron. Actually, it was the opposite. Mickey wanted to not see or look at the guy, much less grace him with company. But Mark, maybe this Mark person would be useful. He’d at least find that out before leaving.

“Bad,” the man said, frowning at Mickey, “you talk bad. Mark says God cries about bad talk.”

“Well, sorry to hurt your virgin ears, Lennie Small,” Mickey snorted, rolling his eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck. Squinted one eye shut as he peered off down the street. In case the shot he fired brought attention. Surely it would. Mickey hated using the gun because it always brought unwanted attention.

“Mark is nice,” the man said, quiet, more to himself. “He lived next door to me,” he continued, now looking up at Mickey.

Mickey, seeing that the stranger was finally coming around, glanced downward, hands on his hips now. He pursed his lips and listened to the useless drivel, still hoping to find out something worthwhile.

“Mark goes to school with my sister,” the man smiled. “He’s real nice. Real smart!”

“Good for fucking Mark,” Mickey grumbled. “Which uh, which way did Mark go?” Mickey asked, bending down and holding onto a headlight. He figured playing nice might get him further than being his usual brazen self. Especially to someone with the mind of a fucking toddler.

“He said not to tell anyone if they came around,” he said and played with the dirt around him. Drew circles.

Mickey licked his lips and stood back up. He pulled his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit up. Around the butt he said, “And when was this?”

“M-maybe yesterday?”

Stunned, Mickey sighed. He took a drag and shifted his gun around his shoulder. Either Mark ditched this nitwhit or Mark was dead. Probably the latter. Maybe both.

“Well, see ya,” Mickey said, blaze. He blew smoke as he began walking back across the street. Made it halfway before he heard footsteps following him. He didn’t bother looking behind him because he knew what was going on.

“Are you gonna find Mark?” the question came. Out of breath, the retard reached down and grabbed Mickey’s shoulder.

Mickey shrugged away and turned around. He scowled up. “Man, get the hell away,” Mickey snapped. “I ain’t got time to babysit your seven foot ass. Or hunt for dead people. Go back to playing with your truck.”

Twenty minutes later and the mentally slow giant was still footing after Mickey. He hadn’t looked back after the guy, but Mickey heard him huffing and puffing. Falling down and getting back up. Either the guy was trying to beg him for a search party, or he wasn’t as dumb as he should have been; maybe he was after Mickey because he was giving up on Mark. Either way, Mickey hadn’t been lying to the guy. In a way he felt sorry for the big lug. But really, MIckey couldn’t afford a liability. He stopped when he saw his truck, still sitting on the tracks.

Pulling his keys out of his pocket, Mickey stared down at them against his dirty palm as the retard stepped beside him.

“What happened?” the man asked, pointing down at Mickey’s semi-bandaged hand.

“Got bitten,” Mickey said, looking up through his lashes. “Had to cut off my finger.”

“M-mark got bit too,” he said, then added, “before he went looking for parts.”

It clicked then. Mickey could piece together the story of this idiot. Traveling around with who was probably another half-whit. Looking for Mark’s dear, sweet ninny all around hometown, cousin fucking, Grainsville. Until the truck killed over, Mark got out, got bitten, was smart enough to know he’d turn, and left this asshole to fend for himself.

Rubbing his face, keys still in hand, Mickey couldn’t think of a way to ditch this guy. He felt kind of bad for him. Being alone in these mountains was scary. Mickey had been dealing with it for a month, since he’d lost Alicia. Fortunately, Mickey wasn’t slow. He knew how to take care of himself. This poor fucking idiot was a gonner out here in the middle of nowhere. The least Mickey could do was drop him off some place safer. Maybe leave him at the next town. With a few cans of food. Or. . .and Mickey thought this with a hole in his stomach as he looked into this man’s eyes: he could kill him. The guy was better off dead. He couldn’t protect himself and Mickey wasn’t planning on doing so for him either. Not for long. Being shot in the back of his head was better than getting ripped apart by zombies.

Wetting his lips again, Mickey swallowed hard. His past life, before all this shit, Mickey hadn’t batted much of an eye killing someone. Helping bury bodies. Whatever his dad and brothers had in store. But no. People without ill intentions were hard to find. Already people were out numbered by the dead. If killing someone wasn’t necessary, Mickey honestly thought maybe he didn’t want to pull the trigger.

Leaving the guy to hope for the best at the next stop was a better option for Mickey’s already slipping sanity and bleeding heart, combating moral upbringing.

“All right,” Mickey said, more to himself. Then asked, “What’s your name?”

“Steven,” he said, smiling dumbly, and reached out to shake Mickey’s hand.

“Mickey,” and he slapped the hand away, knitted his brow. Nodded toward the truck. “Hop in or don’t. Your choice. I don’t give a fuck.” With that he walked over and opened the driver side door, hooked his construction boot into the metal lift and hefted himself inside. He Paused, looking down and sort of over his shoulder before shutting the door. Once closed in, Mickey listened to the sounds of his own breathing and looked straight ahead. Off to the left was a huge green Welcome to Tennessee sign. He was making a lot of progress moving south. Considering the amount of stops he had been making since the transfer truck got high jacked from him by a gang of bikers. Considering he was still searching. If he made only one more stop before heading to Florida, Mickey was looking at a day maximum. But he wouldn't stop just once more.

Quickly, Mickey stopped his thoughts and reached over, threw open the door, yelled, "Aye, getting in or not?" Before leaning into the steering wheel and plucking a piece of folded up paper from his dashboard. 

Steven climbed inside and buckled up fast. He grinned, groofy, and clasped his hands in his lap. Trusting. The idiot. He probably thought just because Mickey saved him, Mickey was safe. And Mickey guessed Steven wasn't entirely wrong. Mickey stared at the writing in front of him before folding the paper back up and sticking it in his jacket pocket.

"What's that?" Steven asked, face blank and dumb now.

"Directions," Mickey said and started the engine.


End file.
